Santa Came Down the Chimney
for M.S. & A.P.

i.
when going is a stronger habit than not going
it is more difficult not to go than to go

when going is a muscle, worked on, worked out
going is effortless, is natural

just as after years and years of respiration
of perspiration, it is easier to breathe than not to

easier to work up a sweat than not to

ii.
some of these songs, these hymns for Christmas
so much like stale decorations
packed up, put away over head
taken out again, from December to December

like regurgitated turkey, stuffing, ham
same turkey meat from birth until you die

what if breathing was the same air, in and out
over and over or the same water we drank
peed out and drank again

composers, poets to produce new hymns
without end required, this desired

or do we remain stuck with what the British left

fresh fish for boil fish and
an uncut pan of Johnny cake

iii.
am I the agent of spoil oh, Lord
or am I, though I think destruction, a victim

acted upon by some evil, in need of rescuing

as much in need of protection
as those I imagine evil- imagine hurt happening to

I do not understand why I’d imagine
who is vulnerable, cultivated, spoiled

beautiful women I’d think to hit, to strike, to assault
alter myself or imagine harm being visited upon

upsetting because such thoughts divide me
not my wishes, not my thoughts

I’d think them,
unable to help thoughts entering my head

like things living, things dead
which end up in a spider’s web

mind, ocean that it is,
every manner of fish wandering through it

iv.
words to sell instead of peanuts
words are my peanuts to shell and to sell
these I must rely upon to keep me

Rasta with peanuts on hand to sell
on his back to sell, on bicycle to sell

jump on the bus, jump back off
with peanuts like a bundle on his back
for who will buy

who will buy will keep Rasta alive
who will buy keeps me alive, happy to be

I have words sent from who knows where,
by God only knows, to earn a living with,
to earn a living by

v.
my thought was that church would be so packed
there’d be no place to rest my backpack

thought I’d have had to place it upon my lap

I have a pew all to myself, others are completely empty

though not full of people, St. Margaret’s Church
is full of joy

Christmas 2009 to celebrate
with contrite hearts, with contrite souls

vi.
wet shoes yet I am here
sand in them, dirt in them

though my socks are wet,
I went through rain, here nonetheless

encounter a friend amid the service
told to behave, not to be carried away

knows she inspires me to be, to lose control

seeing her on Christmas morning
how could I help but bubble over, boil

sing like kettle, steam escaping swiftly
similarly transformed, water into white steam

love-crazy, someone I can love crazily

she is married, she is happy
makes me happy too, happy still


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
Written between 10:55 p.m.,
Thursday, December 24th
and 12:30 a.m. Friday,
December 25th 2009